


Solo

by MenaceAnon



Series: Malagueña [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, dance au, happy friday have fun!, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 11:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10512822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenaceAnon/pseuds/MenaceAnon
Summary: If Thomas wants to keep up with Hamilton, he cannot want totouchHamilton.Or: In which Thomas has a long, hard, steamy think.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Please note that the rating has gone way up!**
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr at [MenaceAnon](http://www.menaceanon.tumblr.com) for a [lot more fic!](http://www.menaceanon.tumblr.com/tagged/my-fic)
> 
> **Warnings at the end**

Thomas kneads body wash into the slopes of his shoulders, working his palm into a knot beside his spine until the muscle quivers loose. He sighs, deep and long, and rolls his neck. The smell of the soap pervades the thick heat of the shower: coriander, peppercorn, vetiver. 

He guides the suds to his chest, tipping his head forward and breathing in. It’s a point of pride that he always smells good. Really good. When people pass him they sway closer, unconsciously chasing the hint of something spicy, something they want to roll in, or put their mouth on. Something enticing. 

Appeal is a more effective bargaining chip than people realize. The urge to touch someone can make you stupid. 

Thomas knows this. 

His fingers work into rounded muscle, down one arm first, then the other. He digs his thumbs into the hollows of his wrists, into the cups of his palms, and rolls his hands until the balled-up, keyboard tension there releases. 

God but he is due for a massage. Someone else’s hands are always better, strong and large and clever. He bites his lip, drags his nails over his thighs, then shakes himself all over, snags the shampoo and pours a generous dollop. 

Jem, he thinks, was right about Hamilton: this is a professional relationship, and a hostile one at that. Thomas has to go in on Monday and look Hamilton in the eye, and when he does that he can’t afford to be imagining him... that way. That’s a game he’ll lose, and he can’t afford to give so much ground. 

There’s no value in the memory of Hamilton leaping, as weightless as if he’d caught his pointed toes on the edges of gravity. And Thomas certainly can’t waste time and energy smothering the low tug of hunger in his belly at the image of Hamilton twisted and knotted up on the floor of the gym, every muscle straining with something fraught and vital. 

If Thomas wants to keep up with Hamilton, he cannot want to _touch_ Hamilton. 

Soapy water flattens his hair against his head, runneling over his pinched-shut eyes. It rolls hot down the length of his spine, and over his shoulders to his chest, following the planes of his stomach to his pelvis to his cock, and Thomas curses viciously and gives in. 

Reaches down. 

God _dammit_. 

It turns out Alexander Hamilton is some unholy blend of muscle and grace, and who knew? Certainly not Thomas. Thomas was living his life, happy and unaware, and – things were better, that way. His breath catches as he sets his forearm against the wall for balance and works his thumb in circles against the head of his cock. Water twines around the groove where his teeth are buried in his lip. 

Things were better before he knew what Hamilton looks like in only a flimsy slip of cloth, or how the light moves on his narrow chest when it’s gleaming with sweat. Before, it would never have occurred to Thomas to even _imagine_ Alexander _fucking_ Hamilton with his legs wrapped tight around the hard shaft of a pole, his back arched and his mouth hanging open, and Thomas’s palm pulls urgently over satiny skin, grip shifting as his tongue works against his teeth and his hips give a needy roll. Shit. _Shit_. 

He flashes back to that moment at the door, with Alexander’s wrist in the circle of Thomas’s fingers and the bass from the music thudding in the hollow of his chest. The scene ends there but Thomas twists around and puts his back against the cool shower tile, wraps his second hand around the tight weight of his balls with a shiver and – pretends. 

Pretends he’d reeled Hamilton in, tugged him close and buried his face in the crook of his neck. Licked at the salt there, and then sunk his teeth in until Hamilton made some sort of _noise_. 

That close to Hamilton, Thomas could drag his hands over the muscles of his back, press their bodies together and just _feel_ him. And Hamilton would dance under his hands, twist like a ribbon and wrap around him until they were twined together, until the scene shifts and Thomas is returned to the shower, to the chill tile at his back, but now Hamilton is leaning into him. Now Hamilton is stroking down his stomach, scratching nails up his trembling thighs and replacing Thomas’s hands with his own. 

Touching him. 

Thomas gasps, warmth washing over him from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He thrusts into the hands that twist around him, head tipped back, mouth open as he gasps against the heavy, humid heat. Hamilton strokes him faster, rougher, nips at Thomas’s ear with his teeth. Flattens Thomas against the wall with the weight of his body and doesn’t relent. This is suddenly, overwhelmingly, too much. 

He shudders to pieces, body rolling against the tile, spilling over his own hands with Hamilton’s name on his lips. 

For the space of a moment, the world inside his head is still and quiet, hushed in the wake of intensity. 

Then Thomas hangs his head, water rilling in thin trails from the coils of his hair. He balls his fist and lets it drop against the wall. 

It’s no good. Too late. 

Thomas wants – very desperately – to touch. 

_Fuck_.

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:**
> 
> One instance of ableist language.


End file.
